The Doctor and Detective
by Blackcurrant Bonbons
Summary: "Good and evil are so close as to be chained together in the soul, Dr Watson. Your soul in particular." A Sherlockian twist of Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde.
1. Prologue

**_Summary: "Good and evil are so close as to be chained together in the soul, Doctor Watson. Remember that." A Sherlockian twist on Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde._**

**_Warnings: Slash._**

**_Rated: T for slash._**

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><p><span>The Doctor and Detective<span>

'Good and evil are so close as to be chained together in the soul." Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde. (1941)

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><p><em><span>Prologue<span>_

"Charlie, I think you're absolutely insane. A genius, but still, insane."

Charlie Colfer grinned mischievously.

"Genius and insanity go hand in hand."

John Watson chuckled. Ruffling Charlie's hair playfully, he pulled him in for a kiss.

_Oh, to be young and free._

A few delicious moments later, John pulled back. For a moment, he thought his mission had succeeded, until Charlie resumed his kicked puppy face, pouting profusely.

"Come one love! This experiment is going to change my life" Just think what it'll do for my thesis! You know how important this is to me!"

John sighed. His boyfriend really was a bad influence on him.

The look of disappointment on his mum's face after he told her about the trouble he had gotten himself into had remained etched in his memory. He wasn't going to stretch his luck any further, not with his position in medical school at risk.

"Seriously? 'Widen your mind and open your soul? That sounds an awful lot like drugs to me."

"Oh, don't worry, it's perfectly safe! I've run some of the preliminary tests on myself, but this is the final product, and in order to make my results viable, it has to be tested on another person."

John looked at his boyfriend critically.

"What – what will it feel like?"

Charlie smiled, feeling success was imminent. "You'll have a heightened sense of awareness, all your senses will be in hyper-mode, and you'll have increased mental and physical performance. Your IQ will increase considerably, and you'll feel slightly jumpy at first. I'll run some tests during your... experience, if that's alright."  
>"Side effects?"<p>

"You'll feel a bit drowsy afterwards, as with any stimulant, but apart from that, none."

John eyed the test tube of clear liquid suspiciously. All the health issues that this could cause... and at the tender age of eighteen... John wasn't sure if he wanted to risk it.

"I'll do it."

Charlie beamed. "I love you, you know that?"

Picking up the test tube, John spoke quietly,

"I love you too."

Unstopping the test tube, he gulped down the contents.

.

.

Silence.

John squirmed. Charlie looked at him expectantly. They both began to grin.

And then all Hell broke loose.

John slipped off the stool, head impacting with a sharp _crack _on the tiled floor.

The test tube shattered on the floor.

Charlie was down on his knees in a flash, shaking him.

John began to convulsed, and a panicked Charlie flinched his hand away instinctively as his boyfriend's skin became unbearably hot.

Charlie began to cry desperately.

"John! John! Look at me! Can you hear me!... Oh god... what have I done!" He whimpered, echoing, "What have I done?"

He jumped up to grab the landline, but was stopped as a hand grabbed his forearm. Tightly.

"No side effects, huh?" Whispered a hoarse John jokingly.

"John!" Charlie cried in relief.

"Are you alright? I need to call an ambulance!"

"I'm fine love. No need in fact, I'm better than fine, I feel great!"

Charlie wiped his eyes quickly. "I'm never doing that again. Ever."

John stood up slowly, and pulled Charlie in for a hug. Stroking his back, John whispered gentlee nonsense as a still shaking Charlie quivered in his arms.

"It's fine love. Your fine, I'm fine, we're both fine. And I love you, you know that?"

Charlie reddened. "I love you too."

.

.

That night, Charlie Colfer was dead.

_TBC_

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><p><em>A.N – Well what did you think? Next chapter is up very, very shortly, as the majority of this fic is already written. Unbeta'd, so please point out any mistakes, as I seemed to have picked up an annoying habit of switching between third and second person. Reviews wanted, please inquire within! ;) <em>


	2. Chapter One

_A/N - From your reviews last chapter, I think all of you are in for a big shock (hopefully) as is my intention! Enjoy! (A/N continued at end)._

_Warning: Fleetingly mild thoughts of gore at end. If you have a trigger imagination, skip that bit._

_Disclaimer: Oh for the love God, if I owned Sherlock I sure as hell wouldn't be writing fanfiction. I'd be doing much more... interesting things, like Benedict Cumberbatch._

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><p><em>Chapter One<em>

"It says in Romans Chapter Seven, Verse 20, 'Now if I do what I do not want to do, it is no longer I who does it, but it is the sin living within me that does it." The priest paused, drawing a breath.

The squawking of the birds echoed through the nave, and the beginnings of rain smatter against the stained glass of the crumbling church. An eerie tension had fell upon the small congregation, and they sank further into their pews, allowing themselves to hide in the impenetrable darkness, hiding from the priest's words.

"Pride – or to consider oneself without evil, to put it simply – is the considered the greatest sin, because it is the precursor to evil itself." Another pause. Someone coughed.

"The failure to accept the tension of humanity's duality is related to in Christian Theology, where Satan's fall from Heaven is due to his refusal to believe that he is a created being, rather that God himself." The priest surveyed the room. Several people bowed under his piercing gaze.

"Sigmund Freud was a pioneer in the study of the subject, himself personally interested in the mental condition that separates the sinful from the moral self. In Freudian Theory, the thoughts and desires that are banished to the subconscious mind motivate the behaviour of the conscious mind. An example of this concept is Robert Louis Stevenson's Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde. The novella represents an aspect of Western culture concerning humanity's inner conflict in the sense of good and evil. In one aspect of interpretation certainly, the novella is considered an examination of the duality of human nature, and how failure to accept this tension – or 'evil' side – will result in the evil being projected on others."

Surveying the congregation for one last time, he spoke again. "Now join with us to together to sing our last hymn, number 666."

The congregation arose from their pew, and the ancient organ belched into life.

John couldn't take it anymore. He really had tried to change, to reform, but the vicar's sermon had struck to close to home this time.

Attending church had been the recommendation of his therapist, a final attempt to give purpose to his life, to cure his sinking depression. Recalling several hazy memories of attending church as a child with his mother and sister, John had heartily agreed. Anything to cure his problem.

Now it seemed he was back to square one.

His hands tremored slightly as he clenched the prayer book.

John was many things, but he was _not_ a hypocrite.

Dropping the prayer book with a clatter, he stormed out of the church with controlled rage, ignoring the shocked and angry looks of the congregation and the knowing gaze of the priest.

Stepping out of the church and into the encompassing clouds, he ran. He ran through London, past the taxis, the cyclists, the pedestrians. He almost ran straight through Baker Street, stopping himself just outside 221b.

Entering, he closed the door as calmly as his anger would allow, not wanting to disturb Mrs Hudson. He cared for his great aunt deeply, and did not want to disturb his fragile health.

Taking the stairs two at a time, he closed the flat door and locked it behind him.

Divesting his jacket, he clenched his fists several times and wiped the forming perspiration from his brow. Locking the door, he paced to the sofa.

_He could do this. He __would__ do this._

Shaking, he withdrew the key from his jean's pocket and unlocked the drawer of the coffee table.

He locked the handcuffs onto the steel attachment drilled deep into the wall, and with a deep breath, threw the key across the room, far out of his reach.

Leaning against the wall, he waited for the worst.

.

.

.

The moon had risen and he can no longer take it. This night joins a long line of many others of aborted withdrawal.

Seconds later, he was in the kitchen, ripping open the locked draw and gulping down the elixir. The handcuffs lie snapped in half next to the crumbling wall.

Already, he felt the growth, and began to rip off his clothes in a flurry of tangled limbs.

The buttons of his shirt were still rolling when the transformation finished. He barely feels the pain now. In fact, he relishes it.

Turning to leave, he caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror.

He was transfixed. The moonlight from the window illuminated him, the beautiful monster. Inky curls, high cheekbones, angelic cupid bow lips. He is perfect. The monster's eyes sparkled like emeralds, embedded in his milky skin. Tall, lithe, muscled. Too perfect. Swinging out, he cracked the mirror side to side.

The rage bubbles over, and he is filled with the incessant urge to _kill_. To rip limb from torso, lick the ripe blood from his lips, to smear brains and intestines across a surface like a work of art.

The cracks in the mirror enraged him further, and he smashed it, the shards_ tinkling_ to the floor.

The monster stumbled over the shattered glass, pulling on a pair of trousers.

And then he was out the window, letting the pure moonlight embrace him, leaving a trail of red blood in his wake, the moonlight reflected in the shattered glass.

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><p><em>AN – SURPRISE! So what do you think? Anyway, there are going to be 15 chapters and an epilogue in total, and I have written up to Chapter 8. I intend to update every Saturday, although that might vary depending on how much homework I have. I REALLY want to hear your thoughts on this chapter, I put a LOT of work into it, especially the vicar's sermon at the beginning (Yes, I did actually write that) and the imagery and ideas I tried to convey in this chapter. That's another reason I need you lovely people to review, I wanted to make sure if you got anything!_

_Thank you for all the encouraging reviews so far!_


	3. Chapter Two

_A/N - This chapter is for OryonUK, to help her recover from the shell-shock of the last chapter!_

_Just a short little filler, I hope to see you all next week!_

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><p><strong>Fear -<strong> /fi(e)r/ - An unpleasant emotion caused by the belief that someone or something is dangerous, likely to cause pain, or a threat.

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><p><em>Chapter 2<em>

DI Greg Lestrade squirmed uncomfortably in his seat, flustering hot under the pressure from the accusatory sea of eyes upon him. To the right of him, Sergeant Donovan coughed.

_By God, he hated these press conferences._

The pause lengthened as he gulped from his glass of water, trying to think of an answer that would satisfy everyone.

He braced himself as another journalist began to speak.

"DI Lestrade, are you certain if it's the same killer?"

"We are still investigating into that matter at present, I'm afraid. We have taken into consideration that there has been a five year gap in these killings, but whether it's an imitator or a different killer we're not sure of at present."

"But you believe the killer is the same person?"

"All the evidence points to that, yes." Lestrade smothered a sigh.

"Do you have any reason for this pause?" Another journalist said.

"As I said, investigations are underway."

"Do you believe the killer to be mentally unstable?"

"Anyone who can commit crimes of such atrocity must certainly possess a damn large degree of insanity, yes." A muttering of agreement flew around the room. Lestrade gulped down the remains of the water, parched throat aching.

"What advice would you give to the residents of London?"

"As the killer seems only to be committing the murders in the vicinity of London, until his capture, all residents should avoid leaving their houses after 6pm, especially not alone. Lock all doors and windows. Keep your phone close at hand. Let someone know where you are at all times."

"But that's practically siege!" A journalist cried out. A general cry of uproar exploded through the room, and papers flew as the crowd stood up, raising the roof in a perfectly uncivilised hullaballoo.

"How long before you catch the killer?" A journalist cried out.

Lestrade stiffened. "The conference is now over."

He walked out the door with the press still in uproar.

"Bloody nightmare," Sally muttered behind him. Lestrade nodded in agreement.

"Sir."

Lestrade turned around questioningly.

Sally stood there, frozen still.

"Do you think that the person behind this is –" She looked around nervously, shuffling a little closer, and whispered, "Moriarty?"

Lestrade turned around and continued walking.

It was a while before he replied.

"Yes. Yes, I do."

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><p>'<em>Hell is a city much like London-<em>

_A populous and a smoky city;_

_There are all sorts of people undone,_

_And there is little or no fun done;_

_Small justice shown, and still_

_less pity.'_

**Peter Bell the Third, P.B Shelley.**


	4. Chapter Three

**A/N: I HAS FANART! Done by the wonderful Mealz-loves-Reno (or –secret-psssst on deviantart) it can be found here:**

http:/ secret-psssst(.)deviantart(.)com/art/John-263875397

(**REMOVE THE BRACKETS FROM THE FULL STOPS AND ALSO THE SPACES! AND ADD AN EXTRA FORWARD SLASH IN FRONT OF THE HTTP. freakin' FF. I'LL PUT THE LINK ON MY PROFILE****) The scene it depicts can be found in Chapter 2 where John is resisting his addiction. Please leave a comment, she's awesome! This chapter is for her!**

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><p><em>Chapter 3<em>

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><p>'<em>There are many types of monsters that scare me; Monsters who cause trouble without showing themselves, monsters who abduct children, monsters who devour dreams, monsters who suck blood...and then, monsters who tell nothing but lies. Lying monsters are a real nuisance: They are much more cunning than others. They pose as humans even thought they have no understanding of the human heart; they eat even though they have never experienced hunger; they study even though they have no interest in academics; they seek friendships even though they do not know how to love. If I were to encounter such monsters, I would likely be eaten by them...because in truth, I am that monster.'<em>

_L -Death Note Rewrite_

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><p>John is trapped inside his head. He's sleeping this time, for a change.<p>

The nightmares are common, yet another process where he's just going through the phases.

It's the faces that get him. Faces to which he meant no harm, but harmed none the less.

Charlie is the first. He always has been. The first he loved, the first he killed. Always, that awful night, again and again. A flurry of paper and smashed glass. The relief and the blood. The shame he felt watching the news reports. The guilt.

Then there is the sand. The gunfire and the insanity. The agony of the withdrawal.

Then he is home; London. The last face he sees before he awakes is last night's kill, a young woman. The cries of her baby reverberates in his ears as he jerks up, sweating, with salty tears tracking his face.

.

.

.

John leant against the damp wall of the alleyway, breath swirling to mix with the putrid stench of the rotting garbage. He angrily wipes the blood off his lips with the back of his shaking hand.

His trousers are in tatters, the bloody, sweaty rags clinging to his heated skin.

His back scraped painfully against the brick as he stood up.

He stumbles out of the alley. He stands solitary in the empty street.

A brief smash of pain and then... nothing.

.

.

Blinking, the burning white light pierced John sensitive flesh. Dazed, John caught the shadow of a tall, broad man through the pain.

"Doctor Watson. Doctor, doctor. Trained to save, born to kill. Tell me Doctor, was your condition hereditary?" A slick, unnamed voice mocks him.

John tilted his head up, squinting, half blind.

"What condition?" He answered automatically in defence.

"Oh come now Doctor, don't play dumb. I've been watching you for _weeks."_

The first thing John saw when his sight cleared was a black umbrella.

"Who are you?"

"Ah, of course. I quite forgot my manners, Forgive me. You are the most fascinating...specimen."

John spluttered. The man seemed unfazed; in fact, he seemed to relish John's discomfort.

"Mycroft Holmes at your service. A pleasure to meet you at last, _Doctor John Watson."_

The man held out his hand. John attempted to reciprocate (quite unintentionally, John was not in the habit of shaking hands with his captors) but found his hands were restrained behind his back. Looking down, it seemed the same had been down for his legs

"A mere safety precaution, you understand. I shall have them removed, if you promise to behave."

John nodded curtly. He was in no position to rebel this instant. He was weak from his transformation, hungry and tired.

"Anthea." The man said quietly. "The key if you will, please."

A shadow melted from the dark corner of the room. A beautiful woman clutching a Blackberry emerged, and barely glancing away from the screen, unlocked the handcuffs. She left his legs bound.

"Wouldn't want you running off now, would we?" The man smiled pleasantly, transforming for a moment into a grinning shark. "Tea?"

"Yes please," John replied. _God damn his ingrained English manners._ You weren't supposed to drink tea when being held hostage.

He took the small moment of silence to observe his captor. He wore an elegant 3 piece suit, immaculately manicured hands, slicked back hair, and gleaming shoes. Judging from his accent, it would appear the man hadn't seen a speck of dirt in his life.

The room was plush and luxurious. Apart from his chair, there was no hard metal, but only soft, luxurious comfort.

And now, he was drinking tea from a porcelain cup and saucer.

John sighed heavily. "If you want to kill me, please get it over with. I have no purpose for living. I deserve death and worse."

The man chuckled. "A brave speech Doctor, but unnecessary. That is the very crux of the matter; I have come to _give _you a purpose."

John laughed bitterly. "And what would that be? Friends? A partner? A new job? A cure, maybe?"

The man sipped from his tea cup. "You could call it a _job_, I suppose."

The man contemplated him seriously.

"It is my belief, Doctor Watson, that you kill indiscriminately?"

John looked down, feeling the bile and shame rising in him. He remained silent.

"What would you give to stop killing the innocent, Doctor?"

John looked up. "I have nothing to give."

"Everyone has something to give, Doctor Watson." The man sipped neatly from his tea cup. "I have a proposal for you. I occupy a minor position in the British Government-"

"You want me to be a spy?" John asked incredulously.

Mycroft took another sip of tea. "I must say, this is rather good tea. I'll arrange for Anthea to purchase a year's supply." Another sip. John was beginning to anger. "Not a spy, as such, Doctor. Rather, a mercenary. Some criminals are just far too dangerous to be allowed to continue their existence."

The temperature in the room rose by several degrees as John's blood begin to boil. How dare this arrogant thug presume to barter lives like mere pawns? To pervert the course of justice as if he were God? John churned with his own hypocrisy, and twisted moral. To ask a Doctor to kill by orders was a horror in itself, but when the doctor is a killer himself...There was nothing John would not do to end his self destructive path, but he was _no one's_ mercenary. His mind was a tumultuous ocean of confusion and outrage. An uncontrollable urge to strike the man filled and he strained against the bonds. The rage pooled on his tongue and he craved to spit it out.

"A mercenary? Oh, that's a good one. Hilarious, you sick arrogant bastard! I thought I was damned, but it looks like I've found a fellow demon!" John snarled, but Mycroft remained calm, the twitching eyebrow the only give-away of his anger.

John continued, "A mercenary? Oh is that right, _**Myc**_?" The rage boiling on his tongue mixed with fresh blood as the man's calm demeanour snapped. Before John could react, the cup and saucer were shattering on the floor as the man's beefy hand connected hard with his cheek in a blinding smack that sent his head spinning backwards. His ears thrummed with the painful ringing and he spat out the pooling red lagoon from his mouth.

"You have _no_ right to call me that!" The man spat angrily, eyes glistening.

A few seconds of crackling silence passed. John stroked his aching jaw, stunned, but not shocked. His face was tingling with pain and already swelling. He gritted his teeth. He had felt worse.

Looking up defiantly to the shaking turned back of the man, John spoke. "What will you do if I don't take this _job_?"

The man slowly turned around, unnervingly calm and placid. Evenly, he began to speak.

"A powerful emotion caused by a strong sense of guilt, embarrassment, unworthiness, or disgrace."

John looked on, nonplussed. Perhaps having a dictionary implanted in his head had been the cause of the man's insanity.

"Shame, Doctor, shame." Perhaps I should allow the crowds to lynch you after I spread the news. And who should be the bearer of this unfortunate news to your dear mother and sister?"

John attempted to spring up angrily.

"You wouldn't..." He cried, and winced as it stretched his sore skin.

"Au contraire, Doctor Watson. It would give me a great sense of satisfaction. After all, I am the model law abiding citizen."

John growled at the man's smug speech.

"Time is ticking Doctor – or should I call you... Johnny?"

The restrained man flushed puce red.

"You sneaky fucking conniving bast-"

The man tutted mockingly. "Temper temper Doctor Watson. Think of it as 'quid pro quo'."

"Why?"

The man raised his eyebrow. "Pro bono, Doctor Watson. You are protecting society, instead of destroying it."

John snorted cynically. "You speak a lot of Latin for a thug."

"I can assure you I am no thug."

John tilted his sore cheek up in contradiction.

"I am a patient man, Doctor, but do not raise my ire."

"I got the message, Mr Holmes."

Mycroft paused for a moment, a slow grin spreading.

"Someone will meet you. Follow them, have a coffee, share meaningless conversation, whatever counts for socialising these days." The man straightened his suit imperceptibly. "There will be minimal effect on your daily routine, and I suggest quitting your job at the surgery." The 'suggest' came out rather more as an order. "Your payment shall be... substantial."

John sat gobsmacked. "But I didn't say that I woul'"

"I'll think you'll find that you did, Doctor." He smiled genially, but all John saw was a social facade. He declined to shake his hand, the stinging in his cheek a painful remainder not to get on the wrong side of this man.

"I shall be seeing you very soon. I hope any past grievances" – he gestured vaguely at John's cheek – "will be forgiven. Good night, John. And remember" – a sharp prick in John's back came out of nowhere – "Good and evil are so close as to be chained together in the soul." John could feel himself unwillingly nodding off. "Yours especially, Doctor Watson." And with those eerie parting words, John fell off the precipice of consciousness, back into the blissful abyss he had found himself before this whole profound bloody mess had started.

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><p><strong><em>Next time in The Doctor and Detective...<em>**

'_Lestrade pondered heavily for a few moments._

"_Sir?"_

"_Get me John Watson's address. We need to get to the bottom of this. And soon."_

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><p><strong>AN – Did you like Mycroft? I love writing him; he's one of my favourite characters! Oh, and the 'Myc' was important. With a capital I. Just saying. Leave me your thoughts on this chapter; they are as always much appreciated! :D **

**~BB**


	5. Chapter Four

_Chapter Five_

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><p>"Why is he doing this Greg?"<p>

Lestrade scrubbed his face with aching hands, tilting up a weary head to answer an equally tired Donovan.

"If I'm honest, I have absolutely no bloody idea!" His voice rose and Sally's eyes narrowed.

Lestrade let his strained nerves steam for a moment, and then took a deep, calming breath. Smoothing down the large A3 timeline that covered his desk, he frowned at in consternation.

It made no sense. Any traces the killer left were indecipherable. The DNA samples Forensics had sent to the lab had mystified all the high-tech machines and chemicals, and the fingerprints had done no better. It drove the sensors haywire, and no coherent results could be deciphered from the patchy evidence.

It seemed that the killer wasn't human. Lestrade snorted humourlessly at the irony.

That left three viable options. The killer was an animal, a robot, or a ghost.

The lack of destruction disinclined the possibility of an animal – and these killings were too calculated and ruthless for that of a mindless animal.

A robot? This was far beyond any technology Lestrade – and the world for that matter – had heard of.

That left the last option. Lestrade was a practical man, hardly one to be swayed by suspicion and old wife's tales.

But was it possible?

Donovan, seeing she was going to get no response from a thoughtful Lestrade, spoke out.

"Let's run through the facts again, okay?"

Lestrade straightened up with a weary hint of dying optimism. He looked out the window. Darkness had descended upon London. The tedious artificial light of his office highlighted the numerous coffee cups that littered the floor, telling the story of sleepless nights and stressful days.

Lestrade looked out into the cloudy black night grimly. No doubt the monster would strike again tonight.

The dark thought filled with a newfound determination. He leaned over the timeline, and began to speak.

"The killings start here." He jabbed his finger down at the start of the timeline. "Charlie Colfer was its first victim." He paused, dragging his finger along the timeline. "A three year period of killings begins, all in the vicinity of London." He continued to drag his finger. "Then, a mysterious five year pause. Now, the killer has struck again, three times, the first occuring three months ago."

Donovan's eyes sparked."We need – we need to go back to the start sir."

"I'm listening Donovan."

"Charlie Colfer." She jumped out of her seat with unexpected vigour. She began to pull at a box from the base of the mountain, and Lestrade barked a "careful Donovan!" automatically. But he could not deny the surge of excitement that coursed through him.

With a cry of triumph, Sally pulled out a box, slammed it down in his desk and ripped off the lid.

With juxtaposition, she carefully took out the meagre contents and shared it between them.

They began to thumb through the contents.

"Charlie Owen Colfer, aged 26, PhD student at Bart's Medical School." Sally coughed.

Lestrade's hopes sank a little. "Anything else?"

"Last seen leaving Bart's with his boyfriend."

"Name?"

"John Hamish Watson. Twenty five at the time. Medical student. No criminal record to speak of. Medical records are sound. Same for Colfer, to mention it."

Lestrade brows furrowed. There was something here, something intrinsic, floating, and just outside his grasp.

But something, something inside him, whispered that this John Watson was the key at the heart of this mystery.

"Sir?"

"Get me John Watson's current address. And I want his updated file on my desk. Tomorrow. We need to get to the bottom of this."

Lestrade recalled the accusing eyes of his superiors and the angry cries of the public. "And soon."


	6. Chapter Five

_A/N – Yes, this is embarrassingly short, and for that I apologise. Christmas is coming up and I've been busier than Santa Claus. Also, am considering moving this to an M rating? Because it's getting dark. Leave me your thoughts at the end, I need them! And thank you for all the wonderful support so far :3_

_Warnings: Death, trigger themes._

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><p><span>Chapter Five<span>

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><p>Later that night, Greg was bent over his dining table, surrounded by tottering towers of newspaper clippings and reports.<p>

The drained D.I was so engrossed in his current task that he didn't register Olivia's presence until her hands rested gently upon his shoulders. He twisted around and smiled tiredly. His wife looked worried.

"Come to bed love. You're exhausted."

Greg squeezed her hand gently.

"In a minute Liv. Let me finish this. Go on, warm it up for me. I'll be two minutes."

Olivia raised an eyebrow. "Yeah right, more like two hours. Well, don't expect any sympathy for the crick in your neck in the morning."

She kissed him tenderly on the cheek, and lingered a moment before leaving. Greg turned his attention back to the article in his hand.

The title simply read, 'Lost Boy Found'. In his opinion, it merited for more interest than the content deserved. It had been one of the clippings contained in John Watson's meagre folder. And it was meagre, as although the man had been at first one of the key suspects for Colfer's death, the evidence from the trial seemed to suggest that he had been genuinely distraught, and his DNA samples hadn't matched those at the crime scene. But Greg was convinced this _John_ was the key to the entire investigation, damn the evidence.

Realising he was wandering, Greg refocused on the article. It succinctly and coldly told the story of a boy who had gone missing in the dense woods of his local area – a small hamlet just outside of Oxford. He had emerged twelve hours later, shaken, but otherwise unharmed.

Greg's head impacted hard with the table as he succumbed to sleep. He jumped up in surprise, his world spinning. Quickly shuffling up the papers, he shuffled off to bed, his mind spinning and shoulder's heavy.

However, he had a far from an easy night's rest, his mind filled the image of a tear stained child and a blood red sunset.

.

Halfway across London, John was having an equally uneasy night's rest.

"_If I do what I do not want to do, it is no longer I who does it, but the sin living with me than does it..."_

Spasms shuddered through his body, and John convulsed in his sweaty sheets. His eyelids flickered, showing the crazed whites of his eyes. He vomited violently, and the contents of his stomach soaked into the bedding. The doctor screamed incoherently, choking on the bile in his raw red throat. Faceless names stringed out of his mouth, guilt spilling from his lips.

"_Good and evil are so close as to be chained together in the soul, Dr Watson..."_

His fingers dug into the skin of his chest, leaving bloody grooves.

_Let it be the end. Let it be the end..._

John was back in the army barracks of Afghanistan, convulsing noiselessly, his screams muffled by the thin Army issued pillow. The other soldiers politely ignored his screams, for which he was grateful. This was normality here.

In his enforced purgatory, the last thing he wanted was a helping hand.

He is hunched over an enemy body, glancing over his shoulder. The man is pleading with him, but John is no longer there.

Afterwards, he wiped the blood off his lips, walking away from the shredded boy, which was barely concealed by the heated, reddening sand.

Then his brain was pounding and an intrinsic survival instinct kicked in, and all John could think about was getting off this hot, dry wasteland. _Now._

Then he was kneeling over Bill, who was lying wounded conveniently in the line of enemy fire.

He almost weeps with joy when the bullet pierces his leg, and he licked his own blood of his fingers with a sickening relish.

He abruptly awoke, panting. His leg was aching painfully and he tumbled out of bed, dragging the sheets with him. He rolled onto his hands and knees, stomach continuing to force out what wasn't there.

Lying in a convoluted pool of his own sweat, sick and tears, it was painfully apparent that John Watson was very much alone.

The priest's words pounded in his head. Trying to pick up the shattered pieces of his morality, John realised in a flash that he was truly, _truly_ evil. But even after that horrifying confession, a small voice pleaded with him, convincing him that there was still hope.

The white foam of the shampoo swirled down the drain. He caught sight of his reflection in the bubbles, and laughed bitterly.

And then there was Mycroft Holmes. John supposed logically that it was reasonable that he followed his instructions. He cringed instinctively at the selfish, twisted morality – was he really so far gone that he would agree to willingly murder people?

It was the sin, the monster living within him.

But it was as if John could not disobey the man. Of course, he felt a sense of angry rebellion, but he went out and did the work. And his respect for the man was growing in worrying amounts, despite him having done little to deserve it. Strangely, all these intrinsic emotions were intensified when he transformed.

But as he stood alone in the shower, John found he could no longer summon the effort. The sun rose slowly in the blood red sky. The doctor let the steaming water erode him away.

.

.

Mycroft stood alone on his balcony, his only company a flock of birds soaring above in the red morning sky. A shiver ran through his broad frame, and he quickly stepped back inside.

He sighed, world weary eyes morose. Kneeling down, he felt deep into the bowels of a locked cupboard and gently retrieved a crinkled, yellowing photo album. Settling down onto his favourite arm chair, he blew off the top layer of dust, and opened it reverently.

As he skimmed through the pages, the resounding echoes of childish laughter filled his ears.

He continued to turn, sucking in a breath. His heart pounded painfully in his chest.

"_Myc! Myc!" He cried excitedly. "Come and look at this!"_

"_I'm coming little brother. What is it?"_

He snapped it shut abruptly. He whipped a handkerchief from his suit pocket, and dabbed carefully at the corners of his eyes.

"_See the similarities between the intestinal system of the bullfrog and the toad? Do you see Myc?"_

"_Yes brother, I see it. It is indeed most fascinating..."_

.

.

_Stretching, wanting to break free. Of the skin, the body, the mind._

_To be apart, but always together. _

_Such a profound sense of loneliness._

_But his saviour was not alone. All this time, John had never been alone. _


End file.
